


Adrift

by Astarloa



Series: Adventures In Falling [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Loki Angst, Loki-centric, norse mythology & legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bifröst breaks, and Loki falls. Or perhaps it's the reverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt by the lovely Tattooeddevil on LJ: _The silence was defeaning, the colours loud. Who was he?_ Apologies in advance for the rather idiosyncratic melding of mythology and the Marvel cinematic universe.

This wasn’t, Loki thought, mouth stretched wide in a rictus grin, quite how he’d imagined the day progressing. Not that his morning had started out especially well, come to that, but still. Being woken at an unspeakable hour by hapless servants and presented with a plate of slightly under-ripened fruit hadn’t foreshadowed that by mid-afternoon he’d have taken a wrong step off Bifröst and be tumbling through the void. 

_Focus, you pathetic fool._

The voice sounded strangely familiar. It rippled through his mind, sly and vicious, leaving behind memories whose ends fluttered in useless tangles, like the coronation banner of a dispossessed king. The thought seemed important, somehow, but slipped away before he could grasp ahold of its meaning. 

If anyone had asked – which no one did – Loki would have been unable tell them how far he fell, or for how long. Time became a distant concept, consumed by the swirling light of unknown realms and coloured stars set against an endless, oily darkness. He closed his eyes against the sight and allowed his mind to wander instead through a night of its own choosing, hiding inside it, curled up and alone.

After a while Loki found he could no longer recall very much of himself. 

His thoughts travelled ever further away, while graceless poppets with painted, gaudy, faces crept from the shadows to thieve what was left and claim it for their own. He worried at their creaky, wooden hands with his teeth, biting through coarse strings until his gums bled, only to find more had already taken their place.

The loss of his name was a particular hurt that twisted unpleasantly, making him feel sick. 

He strained, breaking free of his bindings, and scrambled after it, running on bare feet through empty, flagstone corridors and down a wide staircase covered in vines. Thorns sucked at his skin, leaving behind red, sticky-mouthed kisses that slid down his body, wet and warm. He reached a set of metal doors that lay at the bottom and, without pausing, threw them open, stepping out into blinding sunlight. It forced his eyes closed and erased his shadow, painted crooked runes on the back of his eyelids.

He choked back bitter laughter, heart contracting in rage, when he realised the script didn’t make any sense. That he should have been able to read it, but couldn’t. Of course not. He watched as the angular lines began to blur, unravelling like one of Urd’s miscast threads…

_Oh, how she must love seeing me like this_. 

…and then his eyes snapped open.

A snow-dusted marsh stretched around him, partly frozen water covering his legs like lumpy porridge. He shivered and rubbed at his chest, wondering why it ached. Cold mist rose from the ground, obscuring a moon settled low on the horizon. The world was quiet and still, but for the gurgle of water against ash-coloured reeds and a stoat hissing faintly in the distance. 

Standing there, he couldn’t remember what he’d been chasing. 

He pressed against the forgetting for a while, as if at a newly discovered bruise, before growing bored. It was time to leave this eerie place and return home, he decided; else mother would scold him for staying out too late and lock his books away again as punishment. 

So, he started walking.

It proved more difficult than he’d expected. 

His breathing soon grew ragged. White air filled his mouth, sliding down his throat, slippery and foul, making him cough. The muscles in his thighs began to cramp. Perhaps he’d gone the wrong way? He searched for the moon only to find that the fog had grown too thick, and he could no longer see it. 

Troubled, he forced himself to move faster and then faster again, pushing as hard as he could, not quite running. Fatigue wrapped around his limbs. When his toe snagged against something hard he went down on his knees into frigid water, shock stealing the breath from his lungs. He struggled to his feet and pushed damp strands of hair away from his face.

His fingers were shaking, the skin tinged with blue. He told himself it was because of the cold and kept going.

Just as he’d decided to turn back, a vibration passed through the air; a faint, crackling-hum that scraped along his nerves, winding them tighter, and made the atmosphere twitch. Cursing, he flattened his body against the reeds. _And how, exactly, do you think that will save us, little mouse? It’s no wonder you failed._ The disturbance circled around him in a curious loop – once, twice, three times – before fading again, leaving behind the smell of burnt metal. 

For a long moment he didn’t move.

Eventually, though, he eased upright, scanning the darkness. From the corner of one eye he caught a small fragment of light. He watched - unable to look away, seduced by the glimmer - as it threaded an erratic path towards him, rising and falling like the distorted shrieks of a thrall permitted to dream only of Hel. When the light was no more than three faðmr away the figure of a man emerged from the shadows. He was clothed in a finely embroidered, red and gold cloak, and holding a lantern that carried with it the sweet, rancid, smell of animal fat.

“Let go, Brother,” the man said, grimly. The expression sat uncomfortably on a face whose lines seemed more accustomed to laughter. “Let go. All was for nought and nothing remains here.” 

Without thinking, he bared his teeth and growled at the man, lost and feral, blood pounding in his ears. 

_You are not my brother_ , snarled the voice. 

Prickly green fire appeared at the tips of his fingers. It curled along his hands and up the tattered sleeves of his shirt in a teasing wave, singeing the fabric and fine hairs on his arms underneath. He raised an inexorable fist in the direction of the man. Something dislocated inside him, grief-stained rage cast adrift from the source of its meaning, as a bolt of energy streamed from his palm and hit the man in the chest.

The man roared, spittle flecking his beard, and stumbled backwards, dropping the lantern into the water. Its light was extinguished with a small hiss. Mist churned around them, ghostly and curdled. He saw something shift and was startled to realise that where once stood the man was now a raven. The bird cawed, loudly, before climbing steadily upward in a flapping mess of dull feathers, disappearing into the sky.

He remained there, standing perfectly still, as night closed around him, holding onto his rage until it too was gone. 

And then all was black and silent once more, but for the voice with its infernal screaming. He wished it would stop and let him sleep.


End file.
